Lady Tamara Chamadis: A Series of Firsts
by phoenix-rises-from-the-ashes
Summary: Tamara's POV of Crown Duel! Shows how much Tamara changes and matures during the second part of Crown Duel, her motives and thoughts. I want to go way up to when she and Russav kiss and make up! Please read and review! 3rd chapter is UP!
1. Beauty

**Chapter One: Beauty**

Disclaimer: I do not own anything here – Crown Duel belongs to Sherwood Smith.

* * *

Beauty. That one little word means so much to Tamara. It is obvious that the word "beauty" _is_ Tamara. There is no doubt about that; Tamara is of middle height and slender and utterly gorgeous. With her shining black hair curling around her beautifully boned face, delicately arched dark brows, small and delicate nose, full rosy lips, creamy white complexion that is the envy of the court, breathtaking smile, and large pure blue eyes with famously long and curly black lashes, there is no doubt that Lady Tamara Chamadis of Turlee is the beauty of the Court and the belle of any ball or party that she deigns to attend. It is also universally acknowledged that Tamara personifies "beauty". The gorgeous young lady is intelligent and perceptive, polished and sophisticated, fashionable and flirtatious, and above all, charming. Tamara embodies beauty to most. To most she is sweet and charming and as fragile as a butterfly – until you threaten her. Then the innocent beauty turns into a dangerous Circe-type beauty that stabs you in the back with a stunning smile. But no matter what, Tamara is always beautiful. Always.

But to Tamara, there is more to beauty than _that_. Beauty means always being the prettiest, most charming, and most stunning girl anywhere, anytime. Beauty means perfection. Beauty means having every glossy curl in place. Beauty also allows you to reign over Court, it lets you be confident, it lets you charm all the young noblemen with a smile, and it lets you be so perfect and admired that no one can ever bring you down. That is what Tamara strives to achieve, and she wants it so badly that she never cares who gets hurt in her endeavors to be the most beautiful lady at Court. To Tamara, if they get hurt, then it's their fault for being her way. This beauty stops for no one and nothing to get what she wants. Tamara knows why; she remembers what it was like when she _didn't_ have beauty, when she _wasn't_ complimented as the loveliest flower in the world, and she _never _wants to experience that again.

* * *

It used to hurt Tamara so much when she was a little girl. It hurt a lot within her heart that her mother never cared about her. The Countess of Turlee cared for nothing but her own beauty, wealth, and popularity. It hurt Tamara deeply that she did not receive the loving affection that so many other young children did. It really hurt. It especially hurt little six year-old Tamara whenever she thought of the affection her cousins received.

It was the first time that Tamara realized how much affection meant to her and how much she longed for affection.

Tamara realized this especially one cold and wintry day. Summoned to speak briefly with her mother, her maid Anara dressed her up as prettily as she could. With her black hair tied back with a blue ribbon, her blue silken dress emphasizing her sparkling eyes, and her cheeks flushed with excitement, Tamara resembled a porcelain doll. She was excited to see her mother, who had not spoken to her for almost year, since Tamara had been sent back to Turlee after her father "died".

The Countess of Turlee sat in her dressing room, dusting her cheeks with color as she examined herself in her gold-framed mirror. The Countess's maid was busily twisting the Countess's gleaming auburn hair into a knot at the nape of her neck while the Countess dabbed lip color on her full, pouting lips and added dark green eye-liner to her hazel eyes. Tamara's mother was very beautiful.

"There you are, Tamara." The Countess replied to Tamara's graceful curtsy with a careless wave of her long fingers. "What took you so long?" Before Tamara could answer, the Countess continued speaking. "Anyway, I called you here today because the Marquise of Merindar asked me yesterday if you would like to go to Lady Fialma's birthday party next week."

"W-who is Lady Fialma, Mother?" Tamara stammered.

"Stupid girl!" her mother berated her sharply. "Keep your mouth shut unless I require your worthless opinion. Don't you even know royalty? Lady Fialma is the daughter of the Marquise and King Galdran's neice. I expect you to be cordial and pleasant to her." The Countess smirked. "But the real reason that I want you to go to the party is because Lord Flauvic will be there. He's about your age, and it would make a most excellent match if you were to marry him."

"B-but M-mother!" Tamara protested weakly. It was the first time that she heard such coarseness from a noble.

"Shut up, you fool! Don't speak to me until I want you too. You're disturbing me; you made me smudge my make-up!" Still facing the mirror, the Countess beckoned lazily to Tamara. "Let's take a look at you, you little ugly girl. I'll have to work hard to pretty you up so that you look passably attractive. Come here."

Reluctantly, Tamara moved to her mother's side. "Anara dressed me," she explained. The Countess turned to examine her daughter. She froze. Her hazel eyes widened in shock, and she bit her rosy lips so hard that they became bloodless. Tamara waited, standing very still and praying that she hadn't done anything wrong.

A jar of cosmetics smashed into her cheek. Tamara gasped in surprise and pain as the glass cut into her cheek. She saw the maid put a hand to her mouth and back away, but then her mother grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her so violently that Tamara's head rocked. "M-mother," she stuttered.

It was the first time that someone intentionally hurt her.

A resounding, stinging slap cut her off. Her mother's long, sharp fingernails dug into her arms so hard that Tamara felt tears sting her eyes. "You brazen little witch," the Countess hissed venomously. "You little fool. You think that you can just dress up and put make up on and you will be beautiful?"

Tamara gasped. "Mother, what are you talking about?"

"Do you think you are beautiful, Tamara? Let me answer that question for you – no. You are ugly. You look like a troll and a gnome mixed together. You are horrendous and you disgust me just by standing here and letting me see your ugly face." The venomous words felt like a slap across the face to Tamara.

"Listen to me, Tamara. You are nothing but a brazen little witch who thinks she's so pretty when in actuality she is a hag. That is what you are, Tamara, nothing more. You are pathetic and indecent. No man will ever look upon you with ardency; no lady will ever view you with admiration and envy. You are nothing but a little worm, Tamara, and you had better remember that burned well."

It was the first time anyone told her that she was ugly. Adults had always called her "cute", but then, all Court children who were wealthy heirs were called that.

The Countess shoved Tamara onto the floor. Tamara cried out as the floor scraped off a layer of skin.

"Sister." A soft, gentle voice spoke from the doorway.

Tamara and her mother both looked up at the short, perfectly formed, brown-haired woman who stood in the doorway, teal eyes worried, but the rest of her face as blank as any courtier's. Lady Malanda Argaliar stood calmly on the threshold. With a polite smile, she turned to address the Countess. "My husband wishes me to inquire into Chamadis's level of prosperity thus far? Argaliar lost quite a bit of grain during the last floods and we would like to buy some from Chamadis, if that is agreeable. It is my wish that you could help arrange such a sale?"

The Countess rose with a covert glare at Tamara, who cowered on the floor. "Of course," she sneered, gesturing with her fan in the mode denoting Pity for Misfortune, but her tone wholly making the sympathetic gesture into mockery. "It would be an honor to help your _husband_ during this time of prosperity for Chamadis."

Lady Malanda stood perfectly still, not even flinching as her sister not-very-obliquely hinted that she had made a terrible choice in her husband and that she was a loser for being so poor when the Countess was so wealthy. She sketched a curtsy, making the gesture for Unalloyed Gratitude. "Thank you, sister. I am grateful for your help." Her teal eyes rested on Tamara for a moment, although their expression was unreadable. "Perhaps you should talk to my husband now?" she suggested blandly.

The Countess inclined her head graciously, now firmly back in control. With her face calmly blank and her smile gracious and charming, she was once again the court butterfly who enchanted so many men. "Of course."

"Mama!" a soft voice cried. A small, rosy girl with curly brown hair and wide-set brown eyes dashed into the room. She held out a delicate hand that carried a blue bruise. "Mama, Jaric shoved me into the wall! He was so mean!" Nimiar Argaliar, also known as Nee to her family and friends, complained, pouting. "It hurts!" Her eyes widened slightly as she caught sight of Tamara on the floor, but she said nothing.

Lady Malanda turned to her daughter, her teal-colored eyes soft. "Poor Nee," she smiled affectionately. "Come, let us go back our rooms," she told her daughter in a tender voice. "I'll look at your hand there, alright?" Nee nodded solemnly. "Aunt is also joining us," Lady Malanda continued, gesturing toward the Countess, whose lips twitched slightly in a smirk. "Come on, Nee. Let's go back." Tamara was struck by how caring her aunt's voice was, and how warmly she smiled at Nee and slipped an arm around the girl's shoulders.

It was the first time that Tamara acknowledged to herself that she envied Nimiar, that her cousin had something that she didn't, something that Tamara wanted.

The Countess, Lady Malanda, and Nimiar left, leaving Tamara sprawled on the ground, tears streaming down her blood-stained cheeks and blood trickling down her face. The maid hurried to her side, murmuring empty words of comfort. Tamara paid her no attention, nor did she pay any attention to the pain burning in her cheeks. Her mind focused entirely on the warmth in her aunt's teal eyes as they rested on Nee, and the relaxed happy in her cousin's smile.

It was the first time that Tamara realized that parents can actually care for their children, can actually love them, and the children can actually in return respect and love their parents instead of fearing them. It was the first time that Tamara felt inadequate, and as ugly as the monster her mother painted her. After all, if she were a nice, pretty child like her cousin Nimiar, her mother would probably love her and shower her with attention and affection like Lady Malanda did to Nee.

She did not stop to consider how very different her mother and aunt was. She did not stop to consider how her aunt treats everyone with quiet respect and politeness while her mother smiles and simpers to her favorites and treats everyone else to condescension and hidden barbs, that her mother cares for nothing but beauty. She did not realize that it didn't matter how perfect she was; that ironically, it was just because she was so perfect in appearance that her mother was enraged, afraid that she would be beaten in the beauty contest by her own daughter. She didn't realize that in actuality she _was_ the prettiest child at court.

So slowly her self-confidence and belief in herself broke down. The once bright and lively creature became sad and quiet. As Tamara's heart slowly broke, she offered no opinion to anything, believing her opinion to be worthless, and said nothing, fearing that no one would listen – or worse, that they would listen and laugh at her and call her a silly, ugly fool. Tamara became quiet, shy, withdrawn, and silent. The color faded from her rosy cheeks and her blue eyes lost their sparkle as her mother berated her and taunted her cruelly, abusing her opponent in beauty both physically and mentally. Tamara no longer believed that anyone cared about her, or that she had any redeeming quality whatsoever. As Tamara grew more and more uncertain in herself, her mother laughed more and more, telling Tamara that she was right; Tamara was a stupid, ugly, worthless hag.

It was the first time Tamara learned how much words could hurt a person; hurt them deep within their heart, like a knife to the ribs. It was the first time that Tamara wished that she had never been born; the pain of what her mother told her and her longing to forget hurt her that deeply.

* * *

Tamara looks exactly like an enchantress in her blue silken dress. For a moment, she fiddles apprehensively with the golden chain around her slender neck, then drops her hand, composes her face into beautiful graciousness, and steps into the Great Hall of Athanarel. It is her turn to serve her "duty" to King Galdran by standing the Great Hall in full Court mode – Court dress, jewels galore, and many arguments proclaiming Galdran's greatness – and she must not be late. King Galdran might choke on a grape in his anger – not that _that_ will be so bad, but…

The room seems to hold its breath as Tamara enters. The magnificent goldenwood doors glide open smoothly. The room is huge and perfectly shaped as to not echo too much. The marble floor shines from polish. High beams support the distant ceiling, and the huge windows stretching from roof to floor filled with colored glass shows the snowy state of affairs outside. Remalna's huge gold and green ancient flag hangs from the ceilings, and between the huge windows, the flags of the ancient fiefdoms. Guards discreetly line the perimeter of the room. Countless beautiful dressed ladies and gentlemen mill about in an orderly fashion. There room is filled with gentle feminine laughs and low, masculine one, pleasantly modulated voices, long, fluttering lashes, flirtatious smiles, and fans flashing in the different modes.

Tamara treats everyone to her breathtaking smile. Time to get started, she tells herself. Tamara's favorite cousin, a distant, good-looking cousin a few years older than she appears before her with a grand bow. "My dear Lady Tamara," Lord Alexander, the Marquis of Tirragen, greets her, hazel eyes sparkling. "Please bolster my declining prestige as one of the most charming gentlemen of the Court by allowing me to escort you?" His slender wrist turns slightly as he holds his fan in the mode of Supplicant Before Beauty.

Tamara laughs softly at his mild joke and takes his offered arm. "Of course, my lord," she flirts back earnestly, her eyes innocently round and her cheeks glowing faintly with a maidenly blush at his compliment. She lowers her eyes in a mockery of modesty and lowers her voice; "You honor me by complimenting my beauty. But do tell: what is the contest where no prizes are won?"

It is the first time she has joked like this in years.

He returns her verbal feint merely with a Court-like, polite smile, a perfect parry to her barb. "A contest in which none may win naught gives one naught but hope, of course," he returns politely, fingers flicking his fan in the mode of Bedazzled, executing a flawless thrust to her feint. "And it gives me delight," he concludes with a smile, hazel eyes narrowed in mirth.

She smiles back at him – her radiant, beautiful smile. "Delight is always happily given to those who deserve it, my lord," she murmurs softly, her fan spread neatly in the mode acknowledging Superior Artwork. Tamara likes her cousin a lot; Alex has been her friend for a long time, and he held her and rocked her to sleep after her mother hurt her particularly badly. They both practice flirting on each other, as neither of them are interested in the other romantically in the least, and as both of them are good-looking, sophisticated people.

He leads her to a crowded place among the perimeter of the marble floor. There, Tamara flirts with any passable gentleman who looks her way. She has not the slightest intention of entering a dalliance or even a flirtation with any of them – it merely something for her to do. She is bored, and flirting helped pass the time. _Not that the gentlemen will think that it is just flirting_, she thinks to herself with an inward smirk. _Really, these men are all so pathetic. They may hide behind their Court masks, but I know that it's true._ She pauses to smile and exchange meaningless pleasantries with Lady Dara, heir to one of the northern duchies. _The right enigmatic glance and they're staring at you with love-struck eyes barely concealed by their polite expressions, the right beautiful smile and they're asking you to dance, the right shy words and they are your toys to play with. It really is pathetic._

She clears her mind of such thoughts as King Galdran strides into the room. The king is a massively built man, tall, with a girth bordering on portliness. His long red hair is braided thickly with gems, his nose large and curved, his ears large, his beard carefully cultivated and red, his forehead much too high, and his eyes a watery blue. His long mouth is stretched in a cruel smile.

Immediately everyone sinks into curtsies or bows. "Your Majesty."

King Galdran waves his bejeweled hand carelessly. "Rise," he orders indifferently.

Everyone does so, and Tamara catches the auburn-haired Lady Renna flicking her fan deftly in the mode equivalent to rolling one's eyes, at the gentleman dallying with her. Tamara smirks and turns her attention back to the wealthy Duke staring at her perfect features and gives the man a shy smile. She notes that her cousin chuckles softly beside her, but ignores it. She does make sure, however, in case the King should glance her way, that her expression is one of polite, emotionless interest, nothing less and certainly nothing more. She knows well that the King is quite familiar with…with the rooms of the beautiful female servants, shall we say?

"YOU SPEAK RUBBISH!" Galdran bellows ferociously. Tamara snaps back to attention and notices Alex tensing (unnoticeably) beside her. Tamara's posture is as relaxed as ever. She knows that her position is safe; she has done nothing to the King, and the King always did like the beauties of the Court. Besides, Tamara doesn't care about anyone enough to be worried that someone she loves has drawn the King's wrath. She does pay attention, however; growing up at Court, you have to know what's going on from the source.

So Tamara watches emotionlessly as the King rises not too gracefully and grabs the unfortunate messenger by the scruff of his neck. "WHAT DID YOU SAY!" the King roars, droplets of spit bouncing off the man's face. However, it was quite obvious that the runner is worried about more than the amount of scrubbing he will have to do to rid himself of such filth. If looks can kill, the messenger will be food for the crows by morning. Luckily, looks can't kill unless you are a powerful mage, which the King is not. Again, luckily.

The King's massive hand is now stroking the hilt of his sword. The messenger gulps. Tamara approves – there is something about swords that have nothing to do with luck whatsoever. "Well, um, Your Majesty," he stutters, dithering on how he can tell the King the obviously bad news without being chopped up and spiced into mincemeat. There _have_ been rumors that the King is a carnivore.

"WELL?"

The messenger obviously decides that he should speak. "Well, um…you see, Your Highness, the Denlieff King and Queen refuse to pay the tribute that was agreed to. They-they claim that they were unaware of the fine print when they signed the contract, and that it was d-dishonorable of Your Highness to-to do so and they shall do no such thing!"

"What do I care if it was dishonorable?" Galdran demands. "What do I care if they were to burned stupid to realize what we were implying? The treaty was agreed to! Denlieff swore that they would pay a thousand gold pieces for each fiefdom! Blast it, you idiot! Have you no sense at all?" he yells at the shaking messenger, who has fallen onto his knees and looks scared half to death.

Tamara shoots a covert glance from beneath her long dark lashes at a nearby Count and flicks her fan in the mode denoting Pity for Unfortunates. The Count blushes like a boy asking a girl to dance for the first time and smiles back at her, obviously touched by her gentle pity. Tamara refrains from rolling her eyes. Such things are undignified. _Which means, dear self, that you cannot jump and tackle the man, however much you want to. It's sort of flattering, that someone likes you so much._

"Please, Your Highness, I but follow orders!" the messenger begs desperately.

The King's face is a mottled purple and his watery-blue eyes outraged. "GUARDS!" he yells.

A tall and well-muscled captain steps up. "Yes sir?" He salutes, puffing his chest out in pride, then instantly deflates like a balloon when Galdran pokes him hard in the chest.

"Take this man into the dungeons!" He barks angrily to the man, who, cowering, bows and nods at the same time, causing him to look ridiculous. The captain snaps his fingers at some guards, and they drag the unfortunate messenger away. "I will decide on his fate later!" the King declares, still panting from this outrageous behavior. "As if there were not enough burned stupid things today!"

Tamara almost feels sorry for the man. Maybe he is lucky that looks cannot kill, but if he really is lucky, he would have the ability to make weapons useless. The look in his eyes shows pure fear. There is no Court mask to hide it. He is open, and the fear is bottomless and might go on forever. Tamara is lost in its depth for a moment, then composes herself and looks away.

It is the first time that she has seen such deep, unadulterated, pure fear.

* * *

"My dear Lady Tamara. How good to see you again," the Marquise of Merindar greets Tamara warmly and smiles. "I hope that you enjoyed Court today?" She bows to Tamara politely, who of course bows back. She has known the Marquise for quite long, and thinks here a witty but rather dull woman.

Tamara knows a hidden trap when she hears one – after all, she's a master at the art herself. Widening her eyes innocently, she asks with an utterly controlled face, "Why, who does not enjoy Court, Your Grace?" Tamara is not fool enough to be lured into admitting that she hates Court, and therefore King Galdran, which would mean death. Of course, if she lied through her teeth and declared that she loved Court, she would be basically making a fool out of herself by complimenting King Galdran so lavishly.

The Marquise smiles again. She is not an unhandsome woman. Large and elaborately dressed, her curled red hair is streaked with gray. Her eyes are the same watery-blue as her brother's, and utterly bland in expression as she meets Tamara's gaze. Her fan sweeps gracefully in the mode of Acknowledgement of Wit.

Tamara curtsies without a word, waiting for the Marquise's purpose.

"Come to my rooms, dear, for a talk?" The Marquise asks, her fan flicking at the angle of Confidential Invitation for a brief moment. Her voice drops slightly. "There is something I would like to discuss with you that is quite important."

Tamara nods. "Of course, Your Grace."

Later, Tamara kneels gracefully on a cushion in the Marquise's most private room. Two china cups of steaming tea are set on the table before them.

"Well, then, my dear. I'm sure you would like to know why I wished to speak to you?" The Marquise smiles and waves her fan in the Walled Circle Mode.

"Yes, Your Grace," Tamara replies demurely. Inside she tenses slightly; the mode the Marquise is using does not suit her.

The Marquise smiles and lowers her voice. "Have you ever felt…uncomfortable with the way events are occurring in this country, my dear?" she asks.

"In what way, Your Grace?" Tamara will not be drawn into treason.

"The way some kings of the time seem to rule like tyrants and live wealthy and surrounded by gold while people labor to pay his taxes?" the Marquise hints obviously.

Tamara gives a mental shrug. It's not her problem if the Marquise wants her head to be an ornament to the gates of Athanarel, but how does she think she can contrive _Tamara_ into such a pea-brained stunt? Beautiful as she is, Tamara likes to remain an ornament of the _court_, thank you very much.

"The way some kings do away with family members?" the Marquise probes further.

Tamara's brow clears. _Ah_. So the Marquise thinks that she is going to use _that_ to rope Tamara into a plot. Because Galdran disposed of her parents? It would have been a nice gesture if Galdran didn't also dispose of the Marquise's own husband. Tamara merely gazes quizzically at the Marquise.

The Marquise reaches inside her gown and draws forth a letter. It has been opened; Tamara can discern that much. "A letter from the Tlanthis," she whispers in low tones. "They sent this to my dear brother telling him that his bad ruling is destroying the kingdom. From the tone of their letter, they are prepared to fight, to rebel, and they seem to hope that the rest of the kingdom will also rise up and dispose of this terrible King." The Marquise smiles. "I think it a very pretty speech," she murmurs to Tamara, "But I do think that they will need some help."

"Help, Your Grace?" Tamara pretends to be the simpleton who has no mind for politics at all.

The Marquise just smiles. "Cautious, my dear," she approves. "But remember the anguish that you suffered when your parents were torn from you as a child. Remember the grief that my _dear_ brother caused you. If your experiences were anything like mine, to have my husband torn from me and to have to send my dear Flauvic away…" she sighs prettily and lifts her shoulders in an elegant shrug. "Think on it, my dear Tamara. Think on it."

The smirk on her lips proves that she truly believes her misguided notion that Tamara and her mother were close. But Tamara is more concerned with the gleam in the Marquise's eyes. She is a determined woman, Tamara realizes, whose ambition is as great as Galdran's, and who is ever more sly than a snake. She is a clever woman, the Marquise of Merindar. Clever and devious and deceptive. Thank the stars that she, Tamara, has more sense than to lose herself to emotions and succumb to such a hare-brained plot.

Tamara rises gracefully. "If you will excuse me, Your Grace? I fear that I must leave you now."

The Marquise inclines her head, a triumphant smile on her lips and her eyes burning with ambition. She truly believes that she has won over Tamara with her words, that Tamara's grief and desire for revenge for her parents will bring her to the Marquise's side. For such a clever woman, the Marquise really can be blind.

Tamara curtsies to the Marquise and departs the room. She feels strangely scared.

It is the first time that she realizes just how dangerous the Marquise might be.

* * *

I know that this is really long. I guess I went overboard. Please review! Please review! I need reviews to give me the energy to write another chapter! (This took me quite long, actually.) I hope Tamara doesn't seem too out of character – she will be more prickly and flirtatious next chapter. All reviews are welcome; constructive criticism and even flamers, I guess. I want to take this story until Tamara and Russav make up, or maybe even longer if you guys want it. Just review, please! Thanks! 


	2. The Enigmatic Duke

**Chapter Two: The Enigmatic Duke**

Disclaimer: I own nothing so please don't sue.

Note: I apologize sincerely for not updating in _such_ a long time but I am currently really busy. I had mountains of homework and multiple tests to study for. Then my computer totally screwed up and I lost all my documents – including my Chapter Two of this story – and then I had multiple tests and homework again. Oh yeah, I wrote this new quick story today out of pure inspiration and insanity so review it if you like okay? It's called **A Conversation With the Flower** – check it out! I apologize for the long wait – now here's the newly revised, newly rewritten Chapter Two. Enjoy and review!

* * *

The winter air at Athanarel is cool and crisp and scented lightly with the fragrance of delicate red roses. The rose gardens at Athanarel are truly magnifique – whatever his taste in queens, Tamara has to admit that Radare Calahanras was a superb mage – it is his spell that allows flowers to bloom even in early winter. The roses bloom ruby-red and white and a soft yellow in the neatly pruned green bushes. The ground is dusted thickly with soft white snow. Soft glowglobes radiate a warm and peachy golden light, illuminating the dark evening.

It is the first time that Tamara truly sees the beauty of Athanarel's gardens; the first time she truly appreciates the art that some many have wrought.

Standing in the midst of this beauty, Tamara pauses to gently pluck a white rose, inhaling its sweet fragrance. With her glossy black curls gleaming under her beautiful blue hat, her pale cheeks flushed from the cold, and her silk dress matching her blue eyes, Tamara looks truly beautiful by the pale moonlight.

Tamara pauses to hold a crystal glass of wine up to the moonlight, noting the deep plum color. Iced citsir is a rare delicacy and Tamara has never drunk it before. Tamara smiles slightly: the Marquise of Merindar pressed the glass into her hand in order to get her to stay at the immensely boring party, but Tamara has managed to slip politely away with the glass of wine. It is the first time that Tamara has done so, and she savors the triumph of being able to compliment the tyrant king by showing up, and by both complimenting the king again by slipping away after he left by suggesting that the party was dull without him _and_ managing to communicate to the Marquise just what she thinks about their little chat the other day without openly saying it.

Holding the glass by its delicate stem, Tamara sips the cool yet burning liquid, letting it froth down her throat for the very first time. The wine is finely made, and Tamara savors the taste of iced citsir for the first time. Tamara pulls her cloak more tightly about her as she sets the glass down on a bench. The night is getting chill.

"May I say how beautiful you look tonight, my dear Lady Tamara Chamadis?" A soft, appealing, and intimate voice murmurs lightly into Tamara's ear. Tamara feels her eyes widen the briefest fraction; she then straightens and smiles in pleasure. He's back. Turning, Tamara sweeps the man standing in front of her a graceful curtsy. "You may indeed, Your Grace, and I feel that I must in turn compliment your appearance this evening." No man escapes _her_ without a test of wits.

The Duke of Savona merely grins at this. Russav is very tall and quite powerfully built, with glossy and slightly wavy black hair, smooth and becomingly lightly-tanned skin, strong and handsome features, a straight nose, a charming grin that has melted the hearts of many a lady, and arched dark brows set over large and intelligent, sparkling navy-blue eyes. The Duke of Savona is graceful and athletic, wealthy and popular, and one of the only people who can really talk to Tamara.

Savona bows gracefully, taking Tamara's gloved hand and brushing it lightly with his lips. "A pleasure to see you again, Lady Tamara."

Tamara smiles at him, although her mind wonders why he is so formal. Perhaps it's just because the two have not seen each other for a month. Still, she is delighted that someone with a mind of his own who actually appreciates her is finally here – flirtation is very well and all, but Russav is the best kisser at Court, and Tamara of all people should know. It just takes too long to train men to kiss the way you want them to, and Russav is the only kisser who's actually halfway decent. Still, Russav can be oblique – Court smiles and polite faces do that to a person.

For the first time, Tamara wonders if polite smiles and gentle, emotionless voices are really such a good thing. Do they really keep you safe?

She dismisses the thought as she turns her mind back to the Duke. "I had forgotten that you enjoy taking walks in the evening moonlight, Russav," she states gently. "It is a most pleasant and welcome surprise. When did you get back to Athanarel from Savona, pray tell?"

Savona smiles and gestures in the mode denoting Pleased Agreement to her private invitation. "We have returned only this time-change, Tamara, and my servants are still unpacking my things, I daresay. I needed to get some fresh air, and what better way than taking a walk among all this beauty to set oneself at ease? It is only fortunate that we are alone here without the others."

Tamara blushes slightly, catching his hidden compliment and meaning. "Pray, what took you from Athanarel in such a hurry, Russav? There has been many a lady who have been without a partner in a dance or ball since you departed for Savona, Russav; many desolate ladies indeed."

"I have no doubt that you missed me not, Tamara, having so many swains clamoring for your attention," Russav returns with a smile. "However, as the sole object of a nobleman is to make his partner look wonderful, I must humbly apologize to the ladies of the Court, I am afraid. I must immediately host a ball – I fear that there have been too many quiet evenings since my departure for Savona."

Tamara's blue eyes sparkle. "You have been much missed indeed, Russav," she informs the Duke in a low voice. "There _have _been many quiet evenings without your presence. Much missed indeed…everyone finds Court as glamorous as ever but it lacks its major star…"

The Duke nods his acknowledgment at her subtle answer to his worried statement and her reply that all was going well and smiles at her quick dip into flirtation. "Major stars can be replaced easily if need be, my lady," he replies, "especially if need be."

Tamara responds to the double-edged comment with a quick smile and a gesture equivalent to a fencer's salute. "It's a beautiful night," she comments, changing the subject as she walks down the snow-covered path and down to a beautiful fountain of water. For the first time, Tamara dips her gloved hand into the scantily frozen ice, breaking it to touch the cold water. For the first time, she cares not that her glove is soaked and that it is a stupid thing to do. "Ice breaks so easily if it is brittle," she remarks to the Duke, who joins her at the fountain. "But it can also be so strong if made well and beautifully."

"Indeed," Russav agrees with a slight smile. Something flickers in his dark eyes. "But once the warm spring breeze whistles its tune, whatever ice, however hard, will melt. All ice turns to water eventually, no matter how brittle or how hard. It will be a day to look forward to, Tamara."

"Then we should hope for that day indeed, Russav," Tamara responds, hiding her alarm as her fan invites him subtly to close the little distance between them. It is the first time that Russav has spoken such, and so openly, and it _frightens_ Tamara strangely. Tamara knows not what is so frightening, nor why she feels thus, but only that her fear is true.

Russav's dark eyes narrow slightly in amusement and his expression lightens. "But meanwhile, we can enjoy the beauty of the snow, that bathes everything it illuminates in loveliness." His fan acknowledges openly the change of subject.

"Some need not this snow," Tamara responds with a quick smile, strangely relieved that the subject is changed.

"_You_ need not this snow," Russav replies with a slow smile.

Tamara smiles at the compliment, arching one dark brow suggestively as her fan invites him to close the distance between them. "_We_ need not this snow," she corrects him. Russav moves closer, dark eyes narrow in mirth.

"Barbs are barbs, but one finds that one grows accustomed to, and even begins to feel affection for, them," Russav tells Tamara, informing her subtly that she has been much missed and that he is glad to be back with both his fan and his words.

"Barbs are voiced for different reasons, Russav," Tamara murmurs softly.

Captivating dark eyes meet enchanting blue eyes in one breathless moment in which both nobles forget to breathe. Then Tamara slowly lowers her curtain of dark lashes, closing her blue eyes as Savona moves gracefully, kissing her softly and gently on the lips without touching her in any other way.

Tamara feels warmth spread through her. Even after all these years, Russav is the only one who can actually kiss her well enough to make an impact; he certainly kisses much better than those simpering idiots. Still, Tamara is determined to remain free, not caught by the bonds of marriage like her fool of a mother. No man shall ever catch _her,_ and if any man thinks that – if _Russav_ thinks that – then he is a fool and not worth any attention whatsoever.

A flicker of doubt dashes across her mind, gone before Tamara can realize the emotion. For the first time, Tamara wonders, _Will Russav even want to_?

She dismisses the thought, but that first flicker of doubt remains buried in her heart even as Tamara puts her arms around Russav's neck and deepens the kiss between them, as Russav puts his arms around her slim body, fixed in her heart like an unknown burr.

When the two of them break the kiss, both are perfectly controlled, _of course._ It is, however, the first time that both of them feel more than slightly amused by the kiss.

Russav's mouth twitches slightly as he bows, hands gesturing in the mode denoting Superiority in Art. "You are my teacher in this, Lady Tamara," he concedes with a smile that adds sparkle to his enigmatic dark eyes.

"And I am honored to teach you, Russav," Tamara replies, barely controlling her laughter.

"Thank you." The Duke sketches a bow. "May I count on you to grace the Merindar ball on the morrow, Tamara?"

Tamara's eyes narrow slightly. If a man wants her company, then he shall have to win it! She is no simpering Ara, who latches herself onto the nearest good-looking man, or quiet Lisle, who shyly accepts any fool who asks. Tamara is much, _much_ more than _that_! "That will depend on your definition of grace, Russav," she challenges, her fan waving briefly in the mode equivalent to the otherworldly phrase, _En Garde_.

Russav merely smiles. "My definition of grace is naught but that every man shall sigh with longing and envy as the loveliest of the lovely beautifies the entire evening for me," he offers, fan sweeping at the mode of Hopeful Invitation.

Tamara laughs out loud at this; a musical, sweet sound, her desire for verbal dueling quelled. Sweeping her fan at the angle of Glad Consent, she curtsies. "Until tomorrow then, Russav," she murmurs with a slight smile.

Russav bows and kisses her gloved hand. "I live in hope," he replies. He turns and walks swiftly away, his boots crunching the snow, then stops rather abruptly. His voice is hard as he adds, "I would not drink iced citsir if I were you, Tamara. It tends to give a pounding headache to even the most experienced of drinkers, as most raised at Court know. Goodnight, my lady."

Savona departs, leaving Tamara burning with sudden anger. _How dare he?_ It is the first time that Russav has delivered such a stinging remark in a long time, and it burns. How dare Russav treat her as though she is an ignorant child who has never drunk anything stronger than cider before? Anger flames in Tamara as the double-edged comment Russav made races through her mind. How dare he imply that she was being foolish when she drank that thing; how dare he presume to advise her not to drink it in the future? Tamara is her own master! How dare that accursed Marquise attempt to get her drunk?

Tamara paces the snow-covered ground, her blue eyes flashing, her temper changed from happy to enraged in the flicker of an eyelid. How dare Russav presume?

The back of her mind acknowledges that Russav might have only been warning her, but Tamara ignores it in her anger. Russav has always been so infuriatingly helpful; treating her to a sort of affectionate care – as if Tamara needs it – by telling her what to do and what not to do, warning her, advising her – Tamara is no child, and Russav has better remember that! She doesn't need Russav to always advise her and warn her!

And indeed, he does.

* * *

Even as small and precocious Court children Duke Russav of Savona took care of Lady Tamara. In fact, Russav protected Tamara from harm on the very day that the two of them actually met. It was a cold and dismally cloudy day; rain beat down on the huge, floor-length windows of Athanarel's Great Hall. The bright golden light of the glowglobes glowed cheerfully in their holders. King Galdran blazed as well: his long red hair was thickly braided with gems, his clothing made of gold cloth embroidered with silver and tiny rubies and emeralds; the light bouncing of it made onlookers rather dizzy.

It was Tamara's very first time attending Court. Dressed in a lovely but quiet gown of navy blue with tiny diamonds along the neckline and sleeve-hems, Tamara radiated beauty. Her mother, of course, was not pleased.

"Stand up straighter, Tamara," the Countess of Turlee hissed impatiently, pinching Tamara viciously with her long, sharp fingernails. "For Hill Folk's sake, don't fidget quite so much, you little twerp." Soon, however, the Countess's face lit up as she greeted a rich, good-looking lord with a radiant smile. The Countess chatted and giggled and flirted pleasantly with the lord, but when he left, resumed berating Tamara.

It was the first time that Tamara realized that her mother's nature inclined her to hate anyone not of any use to her. It was the first time that Tamara realized that her mother only had time for wealthy, charming nobles who could advance her or offer her some sort of advantage. It was the first time that Tamara realized that _she_ was of no use to the Countess of Turlee, and that was why she was treated so badly. It was simply in her mother's nature.

Tamara did not realize all of it, however. Tamara would never realize that while her mother had always been vain and haughty, she had quadrupled such ever since her husband died. Tamara never realized how much the Countess had loved her husband, how much the Countess hated herself for letting someone she loved die, how she had resolved never to love another again, to spare herself such pain. Tamara never realized that her mother hated Tamara because she was alive and her husband wasn't, how her mother hated her husband for dying sometimes. Tamara never knew that whenever she looked at her mother with her pure blue eyes, it reminded the Countess so much of her dead husband that it invoked both pain and anger that Tamara lived while the Count was dead, and pure hatred that the man she hated for dying lived on in Tamara.

"Stand up straighter!" her mother hissed again.

Tamara stood straighter, ignoring the painful pinches and her mother's angry words. She stood and practiced the politely interested expression her Aunt was teaching her. Her eyes widened when the doors swung open, revealing a stocky man of middle height with graying pale brown hair, small hazel-brown eyes only slightly animated by an almost sickening excitement, and a long, thick mouth. It was the first time that she saw the King's cousin.

"Baron Nenthar Debregi!" a handsomely liveried servant announced haughtily.

Everyone sank into graceful curtsies or polite bows, Tamara just a beat behind them. The King rose and made a show of greeting his cousin with brotherly affection, but even Tamara could tell that it was only because no one dared to that the king hadn't been met with a suggestion to take much-needed lessons from players.

The Baron bowed and began droning officiously. Tamara found herself going a little drowsy – that would never do! – Until a few of the Baron's sentences caught her attention abruptly.

"So, Your Majesty, the army really does need the extra recruits and teachers. As at present we have absolutely no way of providing the much-needed money, I must request, as a humble subject, that Your Gracious Majesty condescend to help us."

The King examined his fingernails – they were dirty; obviously no one dared tell the King that he desperately needed lessons in personal cleanliness as well. "What do you suggest we do then, Debregi?" he asked in a bored voice. "Where am I to scrape up the money for the army?"

"More taxes would be a wonderful help, Your Majesty," the Baron suggested eagerly. "Perhaps…double the amount paid presently. That would support us greatly, and we would be everlastingly grateful." If the Baron fawned over the King anymore, he was going to tip over and fall into the King's lap, and the King certainly wouldn't appreciate _that_ – he liked pretty _ladies_.

Tamara was struck with horror. She knew how strained finances were for some places, how poor some common-folk were, and for the first time in her life, blurted out exactly what she thought without thinking. "Oh no, Your Majesty, that would be terrible!"

The moment the words left her lips, Tamara's mother pinched her so viciously that she could have screamed, whispering harshly, "You, fool, are no daughter of mine." It hurt Tamara like a knife to the heart.

Instantly silence fell over the large Great Hall. Tamara could sense her mother surreptitiously moving away from her daughter, could see swift flicks of fans, could hear the soft rustle of skirts as nobles back away. The King rose slowly as he heaved his massive bulk from the throne, and Tamara felt scared, really scared, by the cruel deadliness in those pale, pale blue eyes. "What did you say, little Tamara of Turlee?" he inquired dangerously, in a voice impossible to discern if it was mocking or angry. "What did you say?"

Tamara dropped quickly into a curtsy. "Your Majesty, I-I simply…" her voice broke as her fear engulfed her. Never in her life had she been so frightened! The cruel enjoyment in his face was enough to turn anyone into jelly.

"Disagreeing with what your King approves of is as good as treason," King Galdran told a shaking Tamara. Tamara's face went whiter as fear gnawed away at her insides. What to do…what to do? How could she have been so foolish, so idiotic! What was going to happen to her? Would she end up dead? "And you know how we deal with traitors, don't you?" the King concluded, lovingly stroking his sword.

Then, just as Tamara was ready to break down completely, someone openly helped her for the first time in her life. "Your Majesty, the girl is not disagreeing with what you approve of," an amused but slightly bored voice drawled. Everyone turned their gazes from Tamara to the tall, slender, good-looking, dark-haired boy who was smiling easily at the King.

"What do you mean, Savona?" King Galdran asked, although some of the deadliness had faded from his nasal voice.

It was the first time that Tamara actually saw the Duke of Savona close up, saw his handsome profile and intelligent dark eyes, instead of from a distance at large parties.

"I mean that the girl was merely attempting to help her King, which is a rather nice gesture, even though it's a bit rough," the Duke explained with a laugh that positively invited everyone else to laugh as well. "I mean," he elaborated further, "she was probably just expressing her utter surprise at your need to collect taxes to strengthen your army when no man would ever dare challenge a man of your superior wit and strength." The Duke bowed elaborately. "And I must say that I agree with her."

"I agree as well," a tall, slender, and blond-haired boy volunteered, his gray eyes utterly polite in expression. "Who would dare challenge our mighty King Galdran? We do not even need an army to protect us – why the very mention of our beloved king's name is enough to make any fool of a warrior scamper off."

By now, the King was smiling and everyone (not counting Baron Debregi) was laughing softly, appreciatively. Tamara breathed a quick sigh of relief, as she sealed off all of her other, overpowering emotions, sending the dark-haired boy a grateful look. It was the first time that anyone had helped her so readily, and Tamara was overwhelmed with gratitude and relieved. The boy grinned at her, and winked. For the first time in her life, Tamara blushed because of a boy.

"Is that what you thought, girl?" the King demanded in a jovial voice.

Tamara curtsied. "Indeed, Your Majesty, although I could never express words fluently, for which I sincerely apologize. Would that any could have Your Majesty's gift at oratory!" Tamara smiled shakily at the King. "I do beg your forgiveness, Highness."

The King laughed. "It is given."

As soon as she could, Tamara slipped away and outside. She did not care if it was raining buckets and buckets. In the rain it was cold, but safe. There, all of Tamara's emotions flooded back to her; the paralyzing fear that Galdran had invoked her; her terror; her rage at her own stupidity; her anguish at her mother's hatred for her; emotions of every sort and kind flooded into her heart and she began to cry. Why had her mother not defended her? How could she have been so stupid? What was wrong with her?

"You catch cold if you stay out here in the rain," a gentle voice reproved.

It was the first time anyone had reprimanded her out of kindness.

Tamara looked up into the Duke of Savona's dark eyes. The Duke smiled and bowed gracefully. "The Duke of Savona," he told her gallantly, "It is a wonderful pleasure to meet you, Lady Tamara Chamadis. But, as I said, you will catch cold here in the rain." It was the first time any had acted genuinely friendly to Tamara.

"Th-thank you for rescuing me, Y-your Grace," Tamara stammered, tears still clinging to her long dark lashes. "I am indebted to you."

The Duke merely smiled. "It was nothing," he assured her warmly. Taking in her pale cheeks, her bloodless lips, and overfilling eyes, he moved forward and gently put his arms around her. It was the first time that anyone embraced her, save her father. "Poor girl," he murmured. "Your mother never told you about the King, did she?"

"S-she did," Tamara protested, tears now sliding down her cheeks. "It's just me. I'm too stupid to learn, too stupid to keep my mouth shut. I-I am such a fool, such an idiot!" Tamara's last nerve broke and she began to sob. "Why am I so stupid? I am so stupid that my own mother hates me!"

The Duke of Savona stroked her thick dark curls gently. It was the first time anyone touched her out affection. "Poor Tamara," he murmured softly. "You are not stupid or idiotic – everyone began with no Court experience at all; you gather experience as you grow up." He held her gently as she cried into his shoulder. "You'll grow up to be lovely, intelligent person, I know it."

"Why are you so kind?" Tamara asked in bewilderment, looking up at him, tears still streaking down her cheeks. "Why did you help me? What have I done for you?"

"That's not how it works," the Duke replied wryly. A shadow passed over his face. "When my parents died when I was very young, I might have also – that is to say, I might have wasted away from grief, but my aunt and uncle Renselaeus saved me, they comforted me when no one else did. Since then, I have tried to do the same for anyone that I can."

"Thank you. Thank you so much," Tamara whispered, crying again.

"It's nothing." The two of them stood together like that for a long time, one crying from fear and sadness, the other recalling distant memories of childhood past, the rain drenching them both soaking wet. For the first time, someone absorbed some of Tamara's pain.

The sweet chime of bells rang out, and Russav gently moved away. "Forgive me, Tamara, but I have to go now. I promised Aunt Elestra that I would take my meal with her today at this bell, and I must go now. Aunt Elestra will be waiting, and my cousin Vidanric is very cranky when he is hungry."

"But of course," Tamara replied with a weak smile."I'm sorry for keeping you so long, and I do thank you for your kindness. Thank you very, very much, for rescuing me during Court and for...for comforting me. Thank you so much."

"It is nothing. I was glad to help," Savona replied with a smile.

"Oh! Won't you need to change before you eat? I'm sorry for making you late!" Tamara apologized.

The Duke laughed out loud. "No," he answered merrily. "It is quite alright. My aunt will be beyond glad that I am not soaked to the bone from mud! The rain does have its purposes!" He laughed merrily again, making Tamara a courtly bow. "I'll see you again soon," he promised the girl.

Tamara smiled, a genuine smile, and curtsied. "I will be honored, Your Grace."

The Duke took Tamara's hand and kissed it very softly. "Please," he invited, "call me Russav."

For the first time in her life, Tamara Chamadis felt truly happy; she had, for the first time in her life, a friend.


	3. Conspiracy

A/N: I'm so sorry I haven't updated this in ages and that this is shorter than the first two chapters. But I do have other stories going on and would be grateful if you checked them out. I will try my best to update this story - and others - more regularly so please bear with me. Tamara may seem a little OOC in this chapter, but even Tamara can't be prickly all the time, and she is defnitely no coward. Please review, guys, and I'll try to update faster. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything here because it all belongs to Sherwood Smith.

Lady Tamara Chamadis graces the Marquis of Shevraeth with a dazzling smile as she rises from her curtsy. "Lord Vidanric – it is good to see you this morning," she greets him with a mocking smile. "What a delight to see you in the gardens." Her fingers flick her fan into the mode denoting Unexpected Pleasure.

For the first time since she learned courtly manners, Tamara is not trying to insult deliberately, but trying to distract any idiotic, spying nobles around. It is silly to use a spy without brains, Tamara thinks, but perhaps King Galdran wishes to surround himself with men like him, like most idiotic males who prefer brawny to brainy.

But Lord Vidanric never rises to take the bait and simply smiles thinly. "It is good to see you this morning as well, Lady Tamara," he replies lightly. "Especially alone and without your usual crowd of swains." His gray eyes are mock solemn; without looking at Tamara – who struggles not to laugh at the irony in this – Vidanric plucks a rose from the gardens and turns to hand the flower to Tamara. "It complements your beauty, my lady."

Tamara's blue eyes narrow slightly; inwardly she tries to conceal her rare mirth as she feels the roughness of the papers that the Marquis has just slid into her hands with practiced ease. Tamara casually tucks the papers into one of her cloak pockets and gently fondles the flower. "I would suppose so," she agrees, "and I should present you with two dozen roses as a reward, Your Grace." Tamara's heart skips a beat; she is trusting her life with this man for the first time and the excitement is mounting.

The young nobleman that Remalna believes to be a fop and a brainless court dandy salutes Tamara; a look of such perfectly just-barely-detectable insulted dignity on his face that for the first time even Tamara is almost fooled. Then she catches sight of the gloved hand gesturing ironically and smiles slightly. Let Galdran's spies try to figure _that_ out! They should definitely be prepared to give their spouses an extra quilt to keep them warm and prepare buckets of listerblossom tea; headaches are _so _tiresome, are they not? The two young courtiers keep up a lively banter for a while, intent on lacing their language with triple meanings and barbs. Was it buckets? Perhaps gallons will be more appropriate.

"I bid you good day, my lady," the Marquis of Shevraeth murmurs with an elaborate bow.

Tamara curtsies politely. "Good day to you as well, Lord Vidanric." She turns and makes her way with deliberate ease through the gardens, back to the magnificently crafted Chamadis House. There she slips into her wing of the House, smiles and brushes off her cousins, instructs her maid to keep visitors away, and goes up to her bedroom. Locking the door behind her, she seats herself on the elaborately carved bed and retrieves the sheaf of paper from her cloak.

Her blue eyes narrow with disgust as she notes that the quality of the paper is of inferior kind; the letters are also poorly formed and resemble chicken scratches. Her lip curls in contempt. What could this letter have to offer her? Is it some stupid joke? But for the first time Tamara learns that appearances are not everything, as her eyes travel swiftly down the lines. Her dark brow travels steadily up her forehead; Tamara thinks with grim humor that if she is to read much further her eyebrow will disappear entirely.

It is the first time since she was a child that Tamara is utterly and completely shocked.

She stares in disbelief at the letter she has just finished, at the letter lying so innocently in her lap. But if a Norsunder could look like Sartora, the world would probably be inflicted with terrible fashion. And under the control of an insane tyrant.

It is the first time that she has heard of this nobleman – the one who wrote this letter – and of such a crazy idea. Count Branaric Astiar is either insanely brave or touched in the head to write such an open – if suppressed letter to the entire Court. Does he _want_ to be beheaded? Tamara glances down at the other paper, one written to her by her cousin, her steward for her Turlee lands and fights back her surprise. Paying her steward a personal visit? It doesn't really matter which of the two it is; both types of courtiers tend to end up adorning the golden gates of Athanarel. In her opinion, Count Branaric combines both.

Not a pleasant characterization.

It is the first that she has learned of the existence of such an un-courtier like noble.

Tamara plays with her fan distractedly. Count Branaric simply _presumes_ that she will wish to join his little rebellion despite the fact that he has nothing but a few hundred village rabble? Count Branaric simple _assumes_ that just because Galdran "disposed" of her mother she will rise up against the King by joining a plot that has absolutely _no_ chance of success? Clearly he is an emotional and passionate man and not a true courtier at all. She supposes that it comes of being from the poorest family in Remalna and running wild with rustics. Tamara is more cool-hearted. Just because she looks the part of a martyr does not mean she wants to be one. There is _no _possibility that she will join this foolhardy plot.

She smiles wryly to herself; she has to admit that while she shuns and scorns Lord Branaric for his doomed plot, she herself is involved in a quiet and subtle – but by no means defective – revolution against King Galdran. She didn't begin it and she certainly didn't join it of her own accord. Of course not. It was Russav – it seems that _everything _always somehow begins with Russav – who brought it about.

* * *

Tamara pushed her glossy black curls away from her face as she studied the Marquis before her suspiciously. Vidanric had changed so much from his visit to Colend – he was no longer the thin and studious young boy that she had known – he was now tall and slender and elegantly sophisticated. Yet it was more than that. Vidanric seemed older than before, rather more mature and worldly. Was it more than just the results of a visit to an elegant Court? But what could have caused it then, unless Vidanric played too many games with the noble ladies of Colend?

Tamara didn't realize then that there are worse things than the loss of popularity, than being shunned, than being humiliated in front of a large crowd, than death, as those are the things that she has shied away from her entire life. She didn't realize that the loss of your loved ones can be far worse, that heartbreak is far worse, because she never experienced love from her family, and never allowed herself to love.

Tamara saw Vidanric's grey eyes darken slightly, and for the first time she sees Vidanric changed beyond his looks and maturity, but in the way he viewed the world. As if the world had turned darker and he was the only one who realized it. She smoothed down the silken folds of her blue gown and studied the young man – under the pretense of flirting with Lord Imyahin. Vidanric was talking quietly with Russav, his face a mask of boredom, yet his elegant fan obscuring his mouth.

Russav nodded and then proceeded to flirt lavishly with Arasa, his face a testimony to his enjoyment. Tamara felt a flare of anger arise at this; she and Russav had argued again, because he never listened to her opinions, never wanted to know how she felt. But her anger subsided as she watched sadness flitter across Vidanric's face before he smoothed his face and entered into a conversation with Elenet. His eyes looked far older than his years.

And suddenly Tamara was angry with herself for thinking so. And haven't we all? She asked herself. Aren't we all acting far older than our years? She looked at Renna who was talking with Trishe, her hazel eyes sad, and recalled the tragic events concerning her last flirtation, which had ended in death. She looked at Russav, who had also been shaken hard by the event. And she touched her fan lightly. She too had been changed by that event, had learned the hard lesson of never trusting a man for fear that he wanted only your lands or your money. We've all had to act far older than we are. Vidanric's probably no different.

But she couldn't help wondering what was going on. There was some subtle undercurrent in this lavish picnic that Russav had hosted, some ulterior motive that Tamara could not discern. Tamara could feel it; she knew that _something _was going on, and she was going to find out exactly what it was. It was the first time that she decided and planned to do something so rash since that horrible day years ago with Galdran.

When the picnic concluded, Tamara smiled sweetly at the lord flirting with her. "You honor me with your attentions, my lord. But I am not sure that I am worthy of your gracious attention." As the young man began to sputter his love, Tamara quickly raised his fan her fan to obscure her face in a mockery of shyness. "Please, my lord," she murmured. "I must think on the matter. Pray excuse me." She curtsied gracefully and left the young man gaping after her, following Russav and Vidanric as they made their way through the maze of gardens. She moved as quietly as she could, feeling reckless curiosity for the first time as she wondered what the two were up to.

Then she heard Russav's soft voice, low and tense and hurried. "…What of Renna?" he wanted to know.

Then came Vidanric's soft voice. "She is completely trustworthy… Renna detests him after everything that he has done and will do anything to stop him… There is much Khialem House can offer to aid us, but it must be subtle. Absolutely subtle…after Lord Lyikio..."

Tamara feels a hand grasp her heart hard. The disappearance of the young man she cared for deeply hurt her still. She realized then for the very first time that she could trust no one, _no one_ except herself with her secrets, because no one else was trustworthy. She didn't know Lyikio died quietly because he trusted his friends, instead of the nasty ignoble death he would have had.

She hears the next sentence and it stops her cold. "What of Tamara?" Russav asked quietly.

"I know not." Was Vidanric's reply.

"I trust her," Russav replied simply. "I would trust her with my life." Tamara felt a warm glow inside. It was the first time that Russav had ever spoken so directly of his trust in her, but she couldn't let her feelings get in the way of her judgment.

"After all your arguments?" Vidanric asked sardonically. "What did you argue about today?"

"I forget," Russav confessed sheepishly. "But I do trust her."

Tamara leaned closer to listen to what they were saying, hidden by a large shrubbery plant, wanting to hear exactly _what _they needed Khialem House for. Her skirt rustled in the wind and she froze in her place, unable to move an inch.

"What was that?" Vidanric asked sharply.

It was the first time that Tamara proved to them that she was a force to be reckoned with.

The two boys whirled around and stared at Tamara. Then Russav leapt forward and seized her wrist before Tamara could move away. "Let go of me!" she cried desperately, struggling to break his grip, which did not slacken. "Russav, let go of me!"

For the first time, Russav's eyes were hard and cold. Tamara felt a tremor of fear at the sight of him for the very first time, and shrank back from him, against her will. "What are you doing?" she snapped, fighting to regain her composure. "What were you talking about, anyway?"

Russav glared at her coldly, then turned to his cousin with a desperate expression. "Danric – please," he pleaded. For the first time since his parents had died, Russav was truly, completely scared.

Vidanric pushed blond hair from his face and sighed. "I don't know, Russav. I suppose we have no choice but to tell her everything." His grey eyes hardened. "And if she refuses, then…then we shall consider the matter when we face it." His hands clenched, and Tamara saw for the first time the muscles on his arms, the casual grace with which he moved. She shuddered, fear coursing through her veins. Idiot, she berated herself. Didn't you learn the first time?

She did not know that Galdran had specifically required her to be at Russav's picnic, so that her curiosity would be aroused and she could find out – for Galdran – whether or not Vidanric and Russav were to be trusted. She did not know – and Galdran never found out.

Russav nodded wearily. "But away from here."

The two young courtiers dragged Tamara into another garden and locked the door. Vidanric turned to face Russav and crossed his arms. "You told me that you would trust her with your life, Russav. Will you do so, now? The decision is yours."

Tamara watched in unblinking disbelief as the noble she flirted and kissed slumped and covered his face with his hands. "I don't know…" he whispered. "I never expected it to be like this…So many people…Danric, I don't know what to do…"

It was the first time she learned how much it hurt to be betrayed. "Russav," she pleaded.

Both boys ignored her. Russav looked at Vidanric and finally made a gesture with his hands that Tamara did not understand. Then Vidanric sighed. "Very well." He moved closer to Tamara until he was close enough to kiss her and whispered in her ear, "We are part of a revolution at Court that plans on overthrowing Galdran, and if you like, we would be honored if you would join us as well."

Tamara stared in astonishment at him, her brain working furiously in a ruthless connect-the-dots. Of course. Khialem House was powerfully connected in Sartor and had the best warhorses anywhere. Renna hated Galdran ever since that fateful night when she had been kissing Russav in his game of revenge with Tamara. The whole picnic had been to discern who was worthy – trustworthy – of joining this dangerous plan, for it was not exactly like one could balk and decline after the invitation was given. There was too much danger, too much risk.

Tamara felt that numbing fear again, for the first time since that awful day at Court. There was too much risk, too much at stake here for Russav and Vidanric to let her go after she had learned so much. They couldn't be sure that she wasn't a spy for Galdran, or that she wouldn't betray them, and there was only one way to make sure that they wouldn't…Her hands instinctively flew up to her throat, and she saw for the first time the small scar on Vidanric's wrist. It was small but deep, and testimony that he had been in a _real_ duel and had survived. She looked at Russav, who had defeated various fencers. Her heart thudded in her throat.

Russav watched her carefully. Then he too stepped forward and murmured, "There is much at stake here, is there not? There are more people involved than just Vidanric and I, and we cannot allow any threat to this plan to exist. Do you understand, Tamara?"

Tamara nodded dumbly, wondering for the first time how a dagger would feel against her throat. She cleared her throat and lifted her chin. She would not, _not_ cower like an idiot. She had been stupid and would pay dearly for it, but she would _not_ lose her pride. "I do."

Vidanric looked at Tamara and closed his eyes for a moment. Russav had told him wryly that Senelac and Tamara were nothing alike, but…in some ways, they were almost like sisters. Ways that cut him like a knife. "And what do you think we should do?" Russav continued for him, noting his cousin's expression.

Tamara spoke through numb lips, but attempted a light tone. "Oh, kill me, I suppose."

Russav touched her cheek lightly and she flinched at his touch. "But I don't want to do that, Tamara," he whispered softly. "I would that you had not succumbed to curiosity and spied on us, but there is no way for us to undo what has been done. If you were in my place, I suppose that you would kill me, but I don't want to do that. I…I have known you for so long, and you are my friend. I would trust you with my life, Tamara." He sighed briefly. "So I have but one question to ask you: will you join this revolution?"

Tamara stared at him. Was he offering her a choice? "Of course," she replied. He _couldn't_ be offering her a choice. Not even Russav would take such a risk. He couldn't be...

"You swear that you will not betray us?" Vidanric wanted to know.

Tamara realized for the first time how cruel the tactic of delaying could be. How cruel it was to offer one last strand of hope when she was about to die. "I swear," she replied quietly. "I swear to you that I will not betray you and aid you in every way that I can."

Russav looked her squarely in the eye, and then nodded. "Very well, then. You're free to go."

Tamara laughed derisively. "Free? I will not be. The moment I turn my back, you'll unsheathe your dagger. I never thought you quite so bad as this, Russav, to give me false hope. If I am about to die for this, than kill me. I know that you will not trust me enough to let me live." Her blue eyes blazed.

"I do," Russav whispered fiercely. "I do trust you, Tamara, and if you choose to walk back to your house right now, you will arrive unscathed. Look at me and tell me that you will betray me."

She looked at him, and realized that she couldn't, realized that inside, she had been following them in the hope that she would be able to help Russav, for some indiscernible reason. The only thing saving her right now was Russav's faith, a faith that she didn't even believe in. Why did he trust her so? Then she recalled the night he broke down and cried to her. The night she saved his and Vidanric's lives. The night after Russav's first duel. Lyikio. And realized that there was no way she could betray Russav. And that Rusasv knew it as well as she, for she had given more of her soul to him than anyone else. "I'll help you," she whispered. "I swear it."

Vidanric smiled slightly. "Very well then," he answered, and touched her cheek with one hand. She started. "It's just a tracking spell," he explained. "Which we put on everyone at first." Tamara simply nodded. It was already more than she could have dreamed, more than she would ever have given, to be allowed, to be trusted to join this revolution. And now that she had been trusted to join, Tamara would give her very best into making sure it worked.

She curtsied politely to them both. "I need to think."

Russav nodded. "Come to Vidanric's city house tomorrow. We'll tell you more then."

As Tamara left them, she could hear Vidanric commenting dryly, "An interesting way to recruit, my dearest cousin. I should learn from you in these matters."

Russav laughed. "It's my style," he replied lightly. "But let us not try that again."

Tamara realized for the first time how much she craved trust, and wondered for the first time just what she had done to deserve that trust and faith that Russav had in her.

She didn't realize that Russav knew her at times better than herself. Didn't realize that Russav had known that she was – beneath everything – nothing if not loyal. Didn't realize that Russav had known long ago that once she gave him her friendship, she would never, ever betray him. He had faltered under the knowledge that many lives depended on his decision, but in the end, he knew that Tamara was loyal, that she would never betray their plans.

And she never did.


End file.
